


Before the War

by Wolfshadow17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s08e23, Gen, M/M, Pre-Dean/Cas, Sacrifice, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfshadow17/pseuds/Wolfshadow17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not wrong, I'm going to fix my home."</p>
<p>Steps in fixing things. Or, how Dean, Sam and Castiel learn to live with each other and the choices and mistakes they've made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Thought of Angels, Choking on their Halos

**Author's Note:**

> A reaction piece to that gripping and terrifying season finale. 
> 
> Major props to the actors, writers and special effects. That last scene was breathtaking.

Castiel stands on shaky legs, listing to the side, feet sliding on the ground. The weight of this body, this body that was never his (not completely), is new and foreign and he can feel the heightened awareness of his true form seeping away, like rainwater on parched earth.

There is still Grace inside him, those few tendrils that clung to his vessel when Metatron–

He can hear his brothers and sisters, screaming in his head, hear the whistling of them overhead as they pass, wings aflame as they Fall. They’re crying out, frantic voices in his mind (fading, fading, fading too fast), calling for their Father and Castiel can do nothing but watch, nothing but stand there in this body that is now his and watch because the weight of failure settles deep in the very marrow of his bones.

The heavy weight of his disintegrating wings is nothing compared to the crushing pain within.

_Because he had not Fallen, not like the others now streaking the sky, their wings torn by the ionosphere, the smells of burning ozone._

_Metatron had set him down upon earth, and bid him farewell and now–_

He can feel his wings deteriorate, no longer congruent with this human body, the angelic form dying quickly inside and it hurts, like nothing has ever hurt before, amplified by the shrieks he can hear in his head and outside of it.

Castiel can feel that the wound at his side has re-opened and he stumbles forward, to do what he doesn’t know, doesn’t know, and did he ever?

He watches. Watches the comets overhead sail past him, strike the ground in furrows and in craters, moving earth and concrete and grass.

All of them, every last one Falling.

They will be reborn, he knows this. Like Annael, they will be reborn and never remember, never know that they were the Firstborn, the first children of God, the first he abandoned and left behind to their destruction.

But Metatron has placed him down, and Castiel will remember and the knowledge of it all, the millennia and the utter infinity, overwhelms him in unceasing waves until he thinks he will fall to his knees.

_Father…please_ ,

And then, there’s a pair of voices in the back of his brain, he can barely hear them in the cacophony but he would recognize the brothers anywhere.

Metatron has set him down close to the chapel _small mercies;_

_“Something wonderful is going to happen, for me and for you. I want you to live this life to the fullest. Find a wife, make babies…and when you die, and your soul comes to heaven, find me and tell me your story… Now go.”_

He pools the last of his strength and flies one last time.

One last time, one last thing, one last deed, _one_ _more_ …

* * *

 

Dean wishes, irrationally, that he could shield his brother from this.

He remembers when Sam was little, remembers the way he used to pray every night, how he teased him for it, every time Sam clapped his hands together and bowed his head. Remembers their father, mocking Sam for believing. Remembers arguing with him bitterly that night, because if Sam wanted that, just that, that one thing, why shouldn’t he have it?

_God and faith don’t exist, Dean. It’s better that he learn early on that there is no one out there watching out for him, or for anyone. Just family. No guardian angels or any of that nonsense._

They look up at the sky together, Sam half supported by his arms and the Impala.

The angels, all of them, every last one, are Falling.

Something in his gut, something primal and old, twists and he wants to turn away, wants to close his eyes but still he stares at them crashing to earth like falling stars.

A sound behind him startles Dean, vaguely like the flapping of wings but more like the crunch of dry detritus underfoot, the breaking of old wood and brittle bone.

Castiel almost falls to the ground as he staggers forward and for a moment Dean is speechless, too much going on in his head, in his chest and heart.

Sam calls his name in a rasping voice and Cas just settles his hand on Sam’s chest.

Sam glows orange-red again and Dean almost pulls him away, and then Sam’s breathing eases and he stops shaking and Cas looks at him, “the last,” he informs, voice wavering and rough.

And then he’s stepping back and Dean reaches for him when it happens. When Castiel finally falls to his knees and a scream, wild and undiluted, is ripped from his throat.

Fire arches across his back, illuminating at last the wings that Dean has only ever seen in shadows.

They’re a slate gray, speckled with blue and white, like sapphire and stardust, smudged  with black, splotches of ink on paper.

Dean and Sam see that much, behold for a few seconds before the wings are engulfed by fire, burning white hot and Castiel continues to howl, hoarse and high-pitched and Dean wants nothing more than to make it stop, make it stop, _please, make it all stop._

When it ends, Cas falls forward, dropping onto his hands, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat and Sam grips his brother tight, can no longer bear to look upward and see the destruction.

Cas feels the pavement, rock and dirt, dig into his palms, getting underneath his fingernails, tiny pinpricks against his skin.

The night sky above returns to near darkness, a pitch black peppered with rain clouds as thunder rolls and lightning falls upon the earth.

_“I’m not wrong. I’m going to fix my home.”_

 

Castiel calls within his mind, a loud and desperate, pleading wail, 

_Brothers and sisters I have failed you_

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, forgive me,_

And is met with a profound and immeasurable silence. 


	2. When the Bough Breaks

Castiel was human as his wings burned away. Human skin, fragile and breakable, meeting with flame.

The last vestiges of his true form had protected him from the worst of it, _Sam’s voice; at least there was that, Dean, at least._

Yet, the stench of burned fabric and flesh…

_He needs a hospital, Dean. We can’t–_

And that’s how they load a mute, unresponsive Crowley into the back of the Impala. How Sam goes into the passenger seat, how Dean takes the wheel.

How they call an ambulance, how they wait until they can see its lights a few meters ahead and how they take off then, leaving Castiel behind.

There would have been too many questions, too many lies, too messy.

And yet.

* * *

 

Castiel awakes to pain. To something unnatural trying to control his consciousness and sensations, dragging him under languidly.

_Dean? I think he’s waking up!_

But Castiel doesn’t. The darkness promises and is nothing, and right then, that is all Castiel wants.

* * *

 

The second time, Castiel’s will is too strong for the drug.

And, there is a pressure of warm flesh and bone upon his hand.

Slowly, his eyes crack open, visage upon the world that is now dimmed, compared to _before._

Dean in a chair, Kevin and Sam behind, on the couch.

The brightness of their souls is gone, hidden from him, _these weak human eyes._

The loss burns, all-consuming.

Castiel lets the darkness take him once more.

* * *

_“He’ll come around eventually…he doesn’t actually hate you, you know that right?” Sam asks, looking at the angel in the eye._

_Castiel smiles grimly, “Yes, I believe that I know. His anger is merited. I could have called perhaps, from time to time.”_

_“Yeah, well, you’re back now. Just give him time.”_

_“I shall endeavor to be patient.”_

_Sam is about to say something else as a violent coughing fit overtakes him, until he can feel the breath in his lungs falls short, feel the choking force–_

_Castiel settles two fingers upon his forehead, the pads of the digits blessedly cool against the heat of his skin._

_His breathing eases, the obstruction of fluid seeking expulsion from his lungs gone._

_“I cannot heal the cause but the symptoms are vulnerable to me.”_

_Sam nods at him, relaxing. “Yeah, thanks Cas.”_

_“It is of no consequence, Sam.”_

_They fall to silence, looking up at the stars, backs against the Impala’s hood, outside for privacy and to let Dean cool off._

_Sam clears his throat and Castiel looks at him with concern, but Sam waves it off._

_“I uh, I actually have something to ask you, Cas…when this is all over–”_

_When I die_

_“–Dean’s…we’re going to need you there, and I just wanted…you’ll be around then, won’t you?”_

_“Of course, Sam. I shall watch over you and Dean, and will come when you need me. By that time, I’m sure that I will have dealt with the angel tablet as well. You and Dean will be back to hunting things and saving others, as is your path. Why do you ask?”_

_“It’s just…I see a light at the end of the tunnel, you know? A, uh, light at the end of the tunnel is an expression, it’s good. It means I see good things ahead. And Dean, he doesn’t really see one, right now I mean...”_

_“Perhaps he is tired,” Castiel says, and there is added weight to his words, something beyond Dean and beyond Sam, beyond hell and heaven and demons and angels._

_The youngest Winchester looks at Castiel, long and hard, at the exhaustion and weariness that seems to engulf the blue eyes and the slope of his shoulders._

_“Please call me if anything arises,” Castiel says suddenly, as he stands and is gone in a flutter of wings, like a gentle breeze blowing fall leaves._

_Dean’s voice fills the night air, a touch of worry, and Sam shakes himself off, walks back to the entrance of the bunker._

_He’ll talk with Cas later, he tells himself._

_Later, there will be time._

* * *

_“He told you he was going to fix heaven didn’t he?...it’s a lie, all of it…you’re wrong…Metatron isn’t trying to fix anything, he’s trying to break it.”_

* * *

 

The third time Castiel opens his eyes, he stays awake.

It is nighttime, he can see the lights of stars and buildings alike shining through the hospital room’s windows.

He registers the scratchy feel of the hospital gown on his body, the roughness of the sheets and blanket on top. The IV in his arm is an annoying prickle, and there is a tightness and muted discomfort across his back.

He wants to leave, he wants to close his eyes and – _what’s the human expression?_ Open them again and find that everything was but a passing dream _angels don’t dream, but he’s human now, isn’t he?_

He wants–

Dean is staring at him, a smile of relief slowly rising on his haggard face.

“Hey, Cas.”   

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title: "Just One Yesterday" by Fall Out Boy


End file.
